


Outside Looking In

by charlock221



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 22:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlock221/pseuds/charlock221
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As he waits for his dear friend to arrive, Watson tells his doubtful niece of a time when Holmes' more human side came to light at a time when it was needed most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Outside Looking In

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all, and thank you for taking the time to read this story. Note that I altered it slightly so that Watson's brother died during the time Watson and Holmes knew each other, rather than before they met.

My eyes opened for the hundredth time and I sat up in bed, staring into the darkness and sighing at my lack of ability to fall asleep. Usually, it was easy; a few minutes with my eyes closed and I'd be asleep within minutes. _Pull yourself together, Clara,_ I begrudgingly thought to myself.

It was no use. I was never going to be able to get to sleep now.

With yet another sigh I pulled back the covers and slipped from my bed. My father's pocket watch lay on the table next to me, and I held it up to the window, noting the time. 2AM. Marvellous.

I threw on my gown and slid into my slippers. A candle in its holder was nearby, and I soon had it lit, illuminating my small room.

Knowing that the rest of the household was asleep, I quietly walked through the corridors and down the stairs, on the way to the kitchen in search of a glass of water. I was careful not to wake my mother or my elder brothers, as I knew it would only result in arguing. Ever since Father died six months ago, our family has been slowly breaking apart. We all knew it, but no one was brave enough to say it.

Well, no one except me. But who's going to listen to a sixteen year-old?

On my way to the kitchen, I paused outside the drawing room, frowning at the light glowing from it. The fire was still going in the mantlepiece. Strange.

It wasn't until I had taken a few steps into the room that I noticed the outline of a figure, stood in front of the window with a tumbler in his hand. The sight startled me so much I dropped my water, the glass breaking upon impact with the floor.

The figure jumped and turned to face me, and when his features were lit up by the fire, I heaved a sigh of release.

"Uncle John." I breathed, closing my eyes. He looked so much like my Father, it was astonishing. Were he here, they would have both turned thirty-eight a month ago. Uncle John had been staying with us for the week for my mother's birthday, and I was not ashamed to admit that I much preferred him to my Father.

He was currently watching me with an amused expression. "Clara." he said softly. "Did I startle you?"

I came further into the room until I was stood opposite him, gazing out of the window. "It's alright." I said. "I'll clean up the mess later."

He smiled. "Can't sleep?"

"No." I said. "What about you?"

"Ah... no. In fact, I'm waiting for someone."

"You're leaving?" I asked, brows furrowed.

Uncle John nodded. "Afraid so. I fear I've outstayed my welcome." He added with a bitter smile, looking down into his glass.

"I don't understand. _I_ enjoy having you here. And Mrs Jones, the cook, positively dotes on you."

Uncle John chuckled. "But I doubt your mother and elder siblings hold the same view." he said, still holding a small smile.

"They don't mind you that much, Uncle."

"I assume that they're just too polite to say anything."

I sighed, knowing that I'd be unable to talk him out of him. "Well... who is it you are waiting for, then?"

"A friend." he said quietly, glancing out the window.

"Sherlock Holmes?" I asked immediately.

Uncle John frowned down at me. "How do you know of him?"

"I've read all of your stories." I admitted.

He raised his eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yes, I think they're wonderful." I said honestly.

Another smile graced his features. "That's very kind of you to say. If I may... how old are you?"

"Sixteen." I answered.

"Sixteen..." he muttered, his gaze sliding back over to the window, lost in thought.

"Nearly seventeen." I added for no apparent reason.

His smile returned. "May I ask which story you enjoy the most?"

I thought for a few minutes. "I think your most recent one, _The_ _Adventure of the Three Garridebs_." I said with a small smile.

Uncle John chuckled softly. "Because I got shot?" he grinned, his hand almost imperceptibly ghosting towards his leg.

"No, because I saw Mr. Holmes' human side for once." I answered with a half-shrug.

His smile faded slightly. "You don't like him?" he asked.

"It's not my place to say..." I murmured, blushing at the sudden attention.

"No, I want to know." he said gently, sitting in an armchair near the window. "What do you think of him?"

"It's not that I don't like him," I clarified, "More that I don't think he is as... faithful... as you are to him." I all but whispered, scared of the reaction I'd get.

He studied me for a long time, not saying anything, nor giving away any emotions.

"Sit down, Clara." he murmured eventually, nodding to the armchair behind me and opposite him. I sat and waited for him to say something. It was then that I noticed he had a certain gleam in his eyes, and I realised with a flutter of my heart that Uncle John was about to tell me a _story_. The best I could do was read and re-read his cases, and I never imagined I'd sit and listen to him recount something that probably no one else has heard.

He leant forward so that his elbows were resting on his knees, and looked at me with a piercing gaze.

"I did not take your father's death well." he began solemnly. "As a doctor and his brother, I urged him whenever I could to lessen the amount he drank. You must have noticed that he drank to excess, and I feared greatly for his health. I could see the effects it had on him, but he would not listen to me.

"When I first met Holmes, he instantly deduced Harry's problems, all from the pocketwatch he'd given me, which I have now given to you. He didn't press me to talk about it, for which I was truly grateful, and when I moved into Baker Street, I was positive he'd forgotten about it.

"But years later, six months ago, Harry passed away, as you full well know. I'm sure it must have been dreadful for you and your family, and I'm sorry I didn't get in contact sooner, but I was having my own difficulties moving on."

Uncle John sighed and looked down briefly at the carpet, and I found myself sitting on the edge of the armchair, silently waiting for him to continue.

"Two nights after your father died, Holmes went away on business, leaving me because I was too distressed to go with him. He was travelling to Oxford, and would not return until three days later. The days dragged by slowly, and all I ever did was mope about the flat. After spending the second evening alone, I told myself enough was enough and finally made myself get out of Baker Street. I walked down the cold streets of London for God knows how long, but eventually I found myself stood in front of Harry's grave.

"The snow was falling heavily, and I hadn't brought an overcoat, but I payed the cold no heed. It didn't affect me as I remained standing with my brother. I didn't say anything – there was nothing _to_ say. I had been too late to impart any last words to him – any _loving_ words to him, for we rarely showed any affection – and I imagine it was that thought that sent me crashing to my knees in the thick snow with a thin trail of tears running down both of my cheeks.

"It was the first time I had let all my emotions come flooding out, for I no longer had to remain strong in front of Holmes. This was before the Garridebs case, so at the time I presumed he would have seen me as weak, were I to show any remorse in his presence. Now he was gone, though, I lost control and openly wept at your father's grave, regretful of everything I never said, never did.

"Gradually, my tears subsided and I was left feeling drained. By that time, I was slumped against Harry's grave, the side of my face pressed against the cool stone, staring at the freezing snow that I could feel landing in my hair and seeping into my clothes. The cemetery was empty, and no sounds were heard bar the occasional sniff from me.

"I don't know how long I sat there; shivering and feeling my eyes droop with exhaustion as the skies began to darken and the last dregs of daylight disappeared behind the city outline. But it was then that a tall shadow stood over my half conscious form, and I heard someone crouch beside me. I didn't have the energy to raise my head, but when I felt a warm overcoat being placed gently over my shoulders, I knew Holmes had returned.

"I looked up at him, and he was watching me with eyes filled with concern and sympathy. Neither of us spoke as I let him guide me unsteadily back to my feet and towards the streets, where he soon hailed a hansom cab. I fell asleep on his shoulder during the ride back to Baker Street, but he did not wake me when we arrived, instead he carried me up the two floors and laid me down on my bed, letting me catch up with the sleep I craved.

"At one point in the night, though, I awoke to find him sat beside me in a chair. When he noticed I was conscious – though still bleary – he leant forward and smiled softly at me.

""Watson," he said, "I don't know when you thought you had to hide things from me, but know this: I hold a greater respect for you than any man, and I don't want you to ever feel that I would cast judgement on your justified outburst of emotions. I can only apologise for not noticing your predicament sooner, and hope you will forgive me for being just as callous as I am usually."

"His sudden apology was enough to make me smile, and it was with a hoarse voice that I told him there was nothing to forgive, before I was soon drifting back to sleep.

"Holmes remained at my bedside for the rest of the night, but the next morning it was evident that I had the beginnings of the flu, due to the time I spent in the snow. For the next week I was either in my bed or lying upon the couch in the front room, but Holmes ensured I received the best medicine that would help aid my recovery. He accepted no clients until I was the epitome of health, but even then he took relatively simple cases, making sure I did not strain myself.

"He never mentioned the night he found me alone in the cemetery again, and soon reverted back to his former self; insulting Scotland Yard's finest and keeping me up in the night with the screeching of his violin, and I believe it was his indifference that actually helped me to move on from your father's death. I owe him a lot for that, for I don't know many men who would keep their distance so I could grieve and yet also remain close should I ever need them to speak with, do you?"

Uncle John watched me with his piercing gaze, waiting for an answer. Any other person would most probably have been angry with me for asking about their relationships in the first place, but Uncle John showed no anger, no irritation. He looked at me with an expression of curiousness and interest, as if he valued my opinion, something which no one else had done.

I shook my head in answer to his question, and he leant back in his armchair with a small smile which almost seemed apologetic.

The loud ringing of the doorbell startled us both out of our reveries, and Uncle John stood up and glanced out of the window. His smile widened briefly before he turned back to me.

"That's my cue to leave, Miss Watson." he smiled. He strolled towards the door, setting the empty tumbler on the table, but then he paused and looked back at me.

"Do you know that when I last saw you, you were four years old and this high?" He held his hand just below his knee.

I smiled back at him. "Yes, I remember. The youngest of the triplets, Joseph, was six, and you bounced him so high on your knee that when he came back down he slipped and landed on the floor."

Uncle John winced. "Yes, not the best way to get into your mother's good books, although if I recall, you and your other brothers found it highly amusing." He chuckled softly, but sobered a few moments later. "What ambitions do you have when you're older?" he asked softly.

I blushed. "I... er... want to be a politician." I murmured, knowing that a woman's career in politics was almost impossible.

Uncle John grinned. "And a fine one you will be." he said with conviction. "I'm looking forward to the day you become Prime Minister." he added with a nod, before striding out the room.

I was left feeling a lot happier than I had been for weeks, and I rushed back to the window to see a cab pulled up outside, and a tall figure standing beside the door, waiting for my uncle.

The lamplight cast a soft glow over his face, and he immediately looked up to the window where I was standing, as if he knew I was there.

Sherlock Holmes gazed up at me, and even from here I could see those icy eyes looking – no, _deducing_ – everything about me, and I smiled down at him. He frowned slightly, clearly not expecting that reaction, but then tipped his hat in my direction just as Uncle John stepped out and met him with a strong handshake. I watched as Mr. Holmes climbed into the cab, and Uncle John turned around to face my window. He waved at me, and I waved back with a laugh, before he too got into the hansom and it drove off, disappearing from sight within minutes.

"Miss Clara, what's all this mess?" I turned to see one of the older servants dressed in her nightgown, scrutinising the shards of broken glass on the floor, and I grimaced.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Wilson, it slipped from my grasp. I'll clean it up tomorrow." I said quietly.

"Well come away from the window, dear, anyone could see you. Now why don't we head down the kitchen and you can tell me over a nice hot cup of tea why you're up at half two in the morning." she said, coming over and gently grasping my elbow, only to strongly frog-march me down to the kitchen and sit me at the table.

I told her that Uncle John had left and that we had merely chatted. I didn't tell her of the story he'd told me, for I felt privileged that I was the only one who knew, and the selfish part of me wanted it to keep it that way.

Three months later, for my seventeenth birthday, I received a manuscript from Uncle John entitled _The Adventure of the Illustrious Client_ , his newest case.


End file.
